


Intimacy

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Hand Kink, M/M, Oral Sex, Romance, Slash, Wrists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-16 07:55:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty and Moran indulge in some intimate acts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intimacy

   The shot rings out loudly in the snowbound silence. The target, a little stone statue, shatters and scatters into the snow. Over in the distant trees a few birds stir. Moran doesn’t care about the noise though, not tonight. Sod the birds too, and there are no humans around to give a toss. Moriarty chose this location for its isolation so that he could spend some time working on a paper and what do the servants he’s hired care about the eccentric professor and his companion deciding that night time is the perfect time for rifle practice on garden ornaments? They seem to think all British are loons anyway.

   Moran lets out a breath that clouds in the bitter air but though he’s cold he feels almost pleasantly warm inside. It’s not like sexual arousal, the state he enters when he’s setting up the shot; when he makes the kill. It’s far colder and clearer and not befuddled by physical sensations (and it isn’t like anything happens in the trouser department when he shoots; he’s not  _that_  sort of chap), but it’s not entirely dissimilar either. He is still, in a very real sense,  _aroused_ , with his senses all prickling and the feeling that he’s building and building up to that one moment; the moment when he squeezes the trigger and sends the bullet to its mark; the thrill of completion; the faintly giddy feeling afterwards of a job well done.  Quite often too when he’s finished his surge of adrenaline spills over into sexual arousal and he will seek out a partner with whom to achieve that other sort of release – sometimes whoever comes to hand; sometimes Moriarty himself, if the man is feeling obliging.

   The professor stands behind him, wearing a dark overcoat with black fur around the collar. It’s rare that this happens, him observing. Better that Moriarty is even further away from the murder scene than Moran each time, and the professor doesn’t even usually show much interest in Moran’s target practice, apparently trusting that the gunman remains capable of doing the tasks Moriarty pays him handsomely for. Occasionally though he’ll join Moran, standing silently watching as Moran lines up the shot, admiring him. It should make Moran nervous but he knows he’s bloody good and even the professor’s scrutiny is not enough to put him off his stride, for he does not interfere. It’s only after Moran has squeezed off the round and the professor has ascertained that he has hit the mark that he makes his move, when Moran is still hunched over the rifle.

   “Dead on target,” Moriarty remarks, his hand pressing against the small of Moran’s back.

   “Yes sir.” Moran straightens slightly, feeling Moriarty’s fingers slip underneath the hem of his overcoat, under his jacket, under the waistcoat even, so that he may caress him through shirt and undershirt. Moran’s left hand tightens slightly around the barrel of the rifle.

   “Does my presence here make you uneasy, Colonel?” Moriarty asks.

   “No Professor.”

   Moriarty withdraws his hand. “Put the rifle down now.”

   “Yes sir.” He does so, laying it down almost reverentially upon the ground to one side.

   “Turn back,” Moriarty instructs him when he moves to face him.

   Moran turns, leaning slightly against the railing, his gloved hands placed upon it, and he fixes his gaze upon the shattered target. It’s raw up here and the wind is strong. It was a difficult shot to the target anyway at that distance and in the dark, even though the moon is out; even harder in this wind. Even if it’s only practice, Moran is pleased with himself.

   Moran’s gloves are tight to his fingers but looser about the wrist and there’s a little expanse of bare wrist between the edges of his gloves and his coat cuffs. Moriarty now rests two fingers upon the small area of bare skin on Moran’s left wrist. “Sebastian,” he says.

   “Yes, Professor?”

   “Your skills are most impressive.”

   Moriarty’s compliments are not given lightly. He is a firm but fair master and Moran knows he’s the pet gunman and that as such he can fall out of favour for bad behaviour, but Moriarty will give praise when praise is due. Moran bows his head slightly, knowing the statement is entirely true. “Thank you sir.”

   Moriarty shifts behind him, so that his chest is pressed to Moran’s back, and his right hand slides around Moran’s right wrist, in that space between glove and coat cuff there also.

  Moran swallows thickly. Moriarty wears no gloves and the sensation of those bare, cold fingers curled around his wrists seems somehow unbearably sensual; far more intimate than anything he is comfortable with. Moran is a man who’d let countless others touch the parts others would regard as far too private to even contemplate but who allows almost no one to touch him elsewhere upon his body. He even shuns the touch of doctors unless he has no choice in the matter, and even then he’ll curse and complain at them while they patch him up.

   “You’re still afraid of me,” Moriarty remarks, his face pressed close to the back of Moran’s neck, so that his beard scratches against Moran’s skin. His breath is warm against Moran’s ear.

   “I’m not afraid of you, sir, I just…” Moran has no words to express what he does feel, but it isn’t fear of Moriarty. This is the man who not so long ago he allowed to blindfold and handcuff him and there is not one other person on earth who could do that to Sebastian Moran without one hell of a fight. That is probably what scares him – the fact that after one brief moment of near panic when he felt the cuffs snap around his wrists, he didn’t want to fight the professor, and he still doesn’t.

   “You’re afraid of what you feel then.” Moriarty still has hold of his wrists, not tightly, and now his fingers slide down Moran’s skin, under the edges of the gloves, covering as much of the backs of Moran’s hands as he can before the fit of the gloves prevents further movement.

   Moran drops his gaze to the railing.

   “It’s cold out here,” Moriarty says.

   “Mm,” says Moran, since there seems to be nothing else to say.

   “Come inside now.” The professor withdraws from him entirely.

    Moran pockets his wind gauge, then stoops and picks up his rifle and follows Moriarty back into the bedroom – Moriarty’s bedroom.

    Moriarty removes his coat and hangs it up carefully in the wardrobe. Moran, after closing the door behind him, watches him, aware that he has not been dismissed; sure this means that the professor is not therefore planning to dismiss him. He doesn’t know how he feels about this. Moriarty has his periods where he wishes to be alone and Moran is always sent on his way, but still they have been spending a great deal of time in close proximity these past four days. They eat together; they sit together in the evening (or that is to say, they sit close; Moran will tend to be on the floor doing his own thing but sometimes while the professor scribbles notes for his paper or peruses one of his books his hand will drop to Moran’s shoulder and give it a brief squeeze, reminding the colonel that his presence is not forgotten; furthermore, that his company is valued).

   Yet so far they have not slept together, both keeping to their own rooms and their own beds each night. This, Moran realises, may be about to change.

   “Sir,” he begins. “Do you wish me to…?”

    “I thought you might like to stay in here with me tonight,” Moriarty says, by way of answer. In appearance it seems that Moran is being given the choice but the decision is already made for him and this makes Moran uneasy. It’s not the sex (if indeed sex is what Moriarty has in mind – with him sometimes it’s hard to tell). Sex is, well, it’s  _sex_ , and Moran knows all about sex. That part is perfectly understandable. It’s the rest of it; the bits that aren’t just fucking. The being expected to sleep beside the professor after. That’s what bothers him.

   “Right,” he says, carefully returning his rifle to the case lying open on the dressing table.

   “Take off your coat, Sebastian.”

   Moran shrugs off his black overcoat, looking around for somewhere to put it down and settling on the chaise-longue. When he makes to remove his gloves though the professor steps over and puts a hand on his arm, stopping him.

   “Leave them on for now.”

   “Leave them?”

   “Yes; come here.” Moriarty grasps both of Moran’s gloved hands in his bare ones, drawing him closer. There he pushes off Moran’s jacket, throwing it atop his overcoat, before taking Moran’s hands again. He walks backwards towards the bed, leading Moran, then at the last moment he pivots them around and shoves Moran back onto the bed.

   Well that’s all right, Moran thinks. He’s used to the professor’s dominance and has had the man on top of him many times before. When Moriarty slides over him, straddling his hips, that’s perfectly normal. When he leans forward to kiss Moran’s mouth Moran responds enthusiastically. For a few moments only their lips meet and their beards mesh together as they kiss. A few moments more though and Moran parts his lips to allow Moriarty to dip his tongue into his mouth, then pushes his tongue rather harder between the professor’s lips. He strains upwards when Moriarty pulls his head back slightly, moving to slip his hand behind Moriarty’s head to draw him back.

   Moriarty smiles at him and pulls back even further, catching Moran’s hand and drawing it back down.

   “Professor?” Moran says. He wonders if he’s misread the signals, which is entirely probable when the professor doesn’t seem to ever emit the same sort of physical signals as anyone else.

   Without a word Moriarty slides his fingers down the back of Moran’s bare wrist, back into that gap between glove and shirt cuff, holding it lightly as he draws it up to his lips. There he kisses the inside of his companion’s wrist, his beard prickling against the sensitive skin there, then brushing his warm lips over it in a way that makes Moran shiver. He opens his mouth slightly and trails his tongue over Moran’s inner wrist now, tracing the blue lines of the veins there before swirling his tongue against his pulse point beneath the edge of the glove.

   “Professor,” Moran says, and his voice is a bit breathless now, husky with lust. He shivers again as the professor keeps on kissing and licking at his inner wrist, Moriarty’s bare fingers interlacing with Moran’s gloved ones. Moriarty watches him intently, Moran’s gaze fixed on his. Moran’s blue eyes look darker now, his pupils dilated. His heart rate is elevated too; his breathing is becoming more rapid. It doesn’t require a glance down to tell the professor that Moran is intensely aroused now, though he slides his free hand down; skates it over the bulge in Moran’s trousers before giving it a very gentle squeeze.

   Moran bites his bottom lip but lets out a low groan anyway. He’s trembling, ever so slightly. He is still keyed up from taking the shot; Moriarty suspects that it is this coupled with his present state of sexual arousal, not cold or fear, that makes Moran quiver so, although he is still uneasy. He looks up at Moriarty, his gaze wary. He’s almost fully clothed; he’s still wearing his gloves even, and yet he feels naked. Stripping himself bare before anyone else is meaningless. The kisses that Moriarty press to his inner wrist though make him aware of his vulnerability and of the power he has relinquished to the professor; of the true intimacy he shares with this man – an intimacy that seems too much; more than he had ever desired. Yet these kisses and the feel of Moriarty’s tongue on his delicate skin also make him deeply aroused. He’s achingly hard inside his clothes, his manhood straining for release. When Moriarty squeezes it again through his trousers he practically growls.

   “Professor,” he says, as Moriarty moves his hand. He wants to touch himself if the professor isn’t going to do anything more but when he shifts his right hand down towards his fly Moriarty catches that hand too.

   “No, Moran,” he says, smiling at him still. He’s sitting over Moran, but too far down; not so as Moran can buck up against him and find any satisfaction that way. He lifts Moran’s right hand up now and begins to first kiss and then lick at the underside of that wrist too, and Moran’s breathe hitches in his throat; stutters when he lets it out between clenched teeth. His eyes look so dark now, shadowed and with his pupils so wide, and they are fixed on Moriarty’s. “Hold up your hand, Colonel,” he says, his touch feather-light against Moran’s right wrist. “Keep it up.” Moran does, though his hand is shaking slightly. Moriarty begins to slide off his right glove, very slowly; very carefully, one finger at a time, until all of Moran’s long, strong fingers are bared. Taking Moran’s hand once again he kisses the palm, pressing his lips to it first; now his tongue, tracing the lines in the skin as if trying to read something in them; trailing it along his lifeline, tasting the salt of his skin.

   When the professor turns Moran’s hand over and slides the first finger into his mouth, Moran goes very, very still and doesn’t take a breath for several seconds.

   “ _Shit_ ,” he says at last, when Moriarty slides his finger between his lips well past the knuckle. Moriarty’s mouth is warm on his cool flesh and Moriarty’s beard tickles against his hand as he sucks on Moran’s finger. It should not be this intense though – the act is questionable but hardly comparable to all the debased acts Moran has engaged in during the course of his life, and yet the way the professor continually holds his gaze; the surety of his actions; the raw intimacy of these acts… it is somehow utterly  _obscene_.

   Moran is close to the edge, still trying to buck up against something and find the right sort of friction, not the constraining pressure of his clothes against his erection. He desperately wishes to be allowed to unbutton his trousers; to touch himself, but Moriarty’s fingers are still wrapped around his left wrist, holding it down with light but firm pressure and now Moriarty is sucking on the next finger of his right hand, smirking at him all the while.

   “Professor,” he says. “I need…”

   “You need release,” Moriarty says, slipping Moran’s finger out of his mouth.

   “Yes,” Moran says breathlessly.

   “Hold your left hand up,” Moriarty commands and Moran stares, faintly disbelieving, but obeys anyway, allowing the professor to slowly, teasingly, pull off his remaining glove.

   “Sir,” he says. “I can’t…”

   “I want you to come for me.” Moriarty lifts Moran’s left hand; kisses the back of it; licks at the webs of skin between his fingers. “Can you do that for me, hmm?” Raising his eyes to meet Moran’s gaze again.

   Moran lies there, panting, his muscles tensed, eyes fixed on Moriarty’s as the professor turns his left wrist over and laps and licks over his palm, over where hand joins to wrist. A strong wrist, but still fragile – the bones there are rather delicate really; the skin fine; the veins so close to the surface. The colonel has great strength in him but if Moriarty desired to he could harm him – kill him, even - so, so easily. “I can’t,” he says with a desperate edge to his voice.

   “Yes you can.” Moriarty’s tone is so reasonable, the kind of tone that not even Moran can argue with, although his voice is not without a hint of amusement and there is certainly a hint of the same in his eyes. “Of course you can, Sebastian.” He directs his attention to Moran’s fingers again; rubs his tongue against the pad of the thumb; draws it into his mouth past the knuckle, before releasing it.

   “Oh fuck,” Moran says, and his right hand closes into a fist; unthinkingly he is straining to pull his hand free but the professor holds that wrist down resolutely. “Fuck,  _Professor._ ”

   “I think…” Moriarty says, and sucks on the tip of Moran’s first finger. “…perhaps…” Shifting to his middle finger. “ _Now,_  Moran.”

    Moran loses it entirely, thrusting up, arching his back, catlike, and his whole body goes rigid for several moments. His head tips back, mouth open, but as he comes, his cock pulsing inside his clothes, he’s almost completely silent. It is only several seconds later that he manages to let out his breath in a long, shuddering gasp as he collapses back onto the bed. His chest heaves as he lies there under the professor.

   “Good boy,” Moriarty says, and he has both of Moran’s arms pressed to the bed now, rubbing his thumbs in slow circles over the backs of the colonel’s wrists, a soothing caress as Moran comes down from the high of his orgasm. “Good boy Moran.” The gunman looks back at him, seeming rather dazed, although sated. Of course he has just spent inside his clothes and in a minute or two he may well be rather irritated about this but for the moment there is something dangerously close to love in the manner in which he regards Moriarty from beneath half-lowered eyelids.

   It is intriguing, the professor thinks – just how vulnerable he can render his strong-willed, cocky right-hand man. Often Moran is stripped bare while the professor retains some of his clothing but Moriarty has proven now that Moran’s physical nudity is not vital in his games and his other theory – that he could bring Moran to climax even without touching his prick – has been proven correct also.

   He rolls over onto his side and tugs Moran over so that they lie facing each other.

   “You always play me like a bleedin’ fiddle,” Moran complains. Well he has regained his composure already then, or as much of it as he can when there is a sticky and rather uncomfortable mess in his underthings.

   “Not a fiddle, my dear Moran.” Moriarty brushes aside a few mussed up strands of Moran’s hair and kisses his companion on the forehead. “I will leave the fiddling to Holmes.”

   Moran grimaces at the name, turning his head away, although Moriarty grips his chin and turns him back, planting a kiss on his mouth before he can say a word against Holmes.

   “All right,” Moran says when Moriarty releases him. “Then you treat me like an experiment.”

   “And yet you do so enjoy it.”

   Moran grins, although he glances down. “I think I’d enjoy it more if you weren’t making me soil my clothes so.”

   “My apologies.”

   “You’re not sorry.”

   Moriarty gives him a smile that shows his teeth slightly. “No, I’m not.”

   “Do I get to return the favour?” Moran enquires.

   “No.”

   “That’s not fair.” Moran lunges forward, kissing the professor roughly on the mouth before catching his lower lip between his teeth, nipping hard.

   “Life invariably is not fair,” Moriarty remarks when Moran relinquishes his hold. “I would have thought you might have grasped this by now.”

   “Sometimes I take a while to grasp things.” It’s not true – Moran is an extremely quick learner – but then he is also a great tease sometimes. “I believe I learn best when you discipline me _, sir_.” Moran tries to place another kiss on Moriarty’s lips but Moriarty turns his face away, leaving him to kiss his bearded cheek instead.

   “Perhaps you should put your mouth to some use other than merely kissing me, Moran,” Moriarty says, giving him a sideways glance.

   “I thought you meant to deny me even that much.”

   “Not at all.” Moriarty slips his hand around the back of Moran’s head, tugging him closer briefly to give him a peck on the lips before clenching his fingers in Moran’s hair, painfully tight, and pushing him down.

   Moran might protest at this roughness but truly he’s far more comfortable with this than with tender gestures. The professor, he notes, is barely even hard as yet. Well, Moran will have to do something about that, now won’t he? He nuzzles up against Moriarty’s clothed groin, pressing his nose against the fabric, beginning to mouth the professor’s length through the cloth. At the same time he puts his hand on Moriarty’s hip and gently but firmly presses him flat to the bed.

   “Do get on with it, Sebastian,” Moriarty says, when Moran continues only to mouth him through his trousers.

   Moran’s gaze snaps up to meet his. “Oi, do you want me to do this right or not?”

   “I would like you to do it  _some time tonight_.”

   “Ungrateful bastard,” Moran murmurs.

   “I heard that.”

   “You were bloody meant to!” Moran directs his attention to the professor’s fly, which is now growing tauter under his attentions, and deftly works the buttons undone. Putting his hands on the waistband, he eases the trousers down, just enough to make things easier. Despite his grumbling, he likes doing this. He knows that it’s one of the things that he’s very good at, and trying to reduce the usually composed professor to incoherence is always interesting, even if he usually only partly succeeds.

   He carefully withdraws Moriarty’s arousal from his underclothes and rubs his thumb over the head in a way that makes Moriarty’s breath catch in his throat, just a little bit. With an exceedingly impish grin on his face and his gaze locked onto the professor’s, Moran parts his lips and takes the professor’s length into his mouth. Moriarty bucks up to meet him so that his prick slips further into Moran’s throat than Moran had planned, although Moran has done this too many times to count (the professor, however, could probably make a fairly accurate estimate) and takes it calmly enough. He may even try to mutter something insulting around Moriarty’s shaft, although the glitter in his eyes is definitely one of amusement rather than anger now. Even when Moriarty tangles his fingers in Moran’s hair again and urges him forward, Moran is steady and calm and continues to meet the professor’s eyes without fear. The shaft slides over his tongue, deep into his throat and it’s verging on too much; too deep; choking him. Yet he remains there, his nose pressed against Moriarty’s skin even when Moriarty relaxes his hold, simply to say that he can do it and that the professor, for all his reminders that he could kill Moran so easily, does not scare him. Only after a few more seconds have passed does he withdraw most of the way, so as to return his attention back to the head, lapping and licking at it; tonguing the sensitive underside, tasting salt.

   Moriarty drops his hands to his sides again, content to let Moran do most of the work now. He lets out a long sigh of satisfaction as the colonel continues to suck him, noting Moran’s smirk in response to this and matching it with one of his own. The sensations of Moran’s warm, talented mouth and deft tongue and his beard prickling against Moriarty’s inner thighs are singularly exquisite. Moriarty would never trust just anyone with this and he could easily go without sex for a very long time, but with Moran around he feels that he may as well make use of  _all_  of the man’s skills.

   The sniper lifts his left hand now and cups Moriarty’s balls, rolling them gently in his palm. His right hand rests on the professor’s thigh, gently stroking him, and he can feel the tensing of the muscles there. This coupled with the rapidity of the professor’s breathing tells him that Moriarty is close to completion. A last swirl of his tongue around the head, then he presses forward to draw Moriarty’s length deep into his throat again, flattening his tongue down to accommodate it. A shift of his left hand; a stroke of his clever fingers just…  _there_ , and the professor’s whole body tenses; his fingers grasp at the bed-sheets and his prick twitches. He lets out a long moan of pleasure as he spills into his companion’s throat.

   Moran swallows his release carefully, barely noticing the bitterness, and only slowly withdraws, ensuring that Moriarty is thoroughly spent before he pulls away completely. Sitting on the bed now he regards Moriarty and Moriarty watches him in turn. Moran’s lips are reddened and wet and the professor looks at him not without some appreciation of this, although he appears less appreciative of Moran’s amusement at Moriarty’s flushed and dishevelled state.

   “It’s funny, seeing you look so human,” Moran remarks, sliding over on top of Moriarty.

   “I don’t know why you are so amused,” Moriarty says. “ _You_  are the one with the mess in your trousers.”

   “Aye, but everyone knows I’m thoroughly debauched. Wouldn’t expect it of you though, would they? I reckon half of them think you’re some kind of bloody monk.”

   “Many people make many assumptions about me that are wholly inaccurate.” Moriarty runs his hand through Moran’s tousled hair. “And that is precisely the way I like it.” He curls his hand around the back of Moran’s head once more and gently draws him into another kiss. He can taste himself on Moran’s lips and tongue but, while he cannot claim to relish the taste, there is something strangely exhilarating about such a visceral reminder of just what Moran is willing to do for him and perhaps even of just how much trust he is prepared to put in Moran also. “Sleep with me, Moran,” he says.

   “Right now?”

   “Well…” Moriarty looks down and smiles. “I think that you should clean yourself up first.”

   “Yeah, that’s probably best.” Moran shifts uncomfortably, although it may not be entirely from physical discomfort. “I’ll just, er…” He slides off the bed and stands there looking awkward.

   “Go on then.”

   “Right sir.” Moran leaves the room, walking rather strangely.

   When he returns several minutes later Moriarty has already changed into his nightshirt and settled himself into the bed. Moran is now barefoot and wearing a bathrobe, although he shrugs this off as he approaches the bed and reveals that he is wearing nothing at all underneath. Moriarty raises an eyebrow at this.

   “Oh come on, you’ve seen me in the buff plenty of times.” Moran slides under the covers beside the professor.

   “I am more concerned that you constantly complain about the cold, yet regularly insist on sleeping naked even in winter.”

   “I don’t like to feel restricted.” Ironic, perhaps, considering that Moriarty has had him effectively caged and collared since the day they met, but Moran likes to feel the clean sheets against his bare skin. “And I do not constantly complain.”

   “Often enough.”

   “Well, can’t help it if all my time serving abroad destroyed my tolerance for cold, can I?”

   “Of course not.”

   Moran regards Moriarty for a moment, wondering if he’s being sarcastic or not. He gives up presently without reaching a decision. “Well, goodnight then,” he says hurriedly, before turning over onto his side, facing away from the professor.

    “Goodnight Moran,” Moriarty says, but instead of turning away as Moran hoped he would he turns onto his side to face Moran’s back.

   Moran goes tense as the professor slips his arm around Moran’s waist and simultaneously draws Moran in and moves himself closer, so that his body moulds to Moran’s back.

   “Sir?” Moran says warily, half lifting his head off the pillow.

   “Mm?”

   Moran puts his head down again, deciding it’s best not to question the professor’s whims. “Nothing.”

   “Go to sleep then,” Moriarty tells him. He seems to fall asleep within a minute.

   Moran lies stiffly awake, listening to the various sounds around him, identifying and dismissing them as free from danger without conscious thought: the professor’s soft breathing; the crackle of the fire burning low in the hearth; the wind outside; a loose roof tile rattling. He’s still tense though because this isn’t natural, is it? Sharing a bed like this with a man capable of doing so much. Yet Moran too is capable of doing very many dreadful things, and Moriarty has no qualms about sleeping beside him.

   Behind him Moriarty begins to snore, very softly, and Moran tries to stifle a chuckle. He probably should never tell anyone – Moriarty included - that the man that that meddler Sherlock Holmes has apparently dubbed the Napoleon of Crime snores.

   Bit by bit he relaxes. He casts a glance over his shoulder at the sleeping form behind him, indulging in a slightly fond smile since Moriarty isn’t awake to see it. He yawns vigorously then and settles his head back onto the pillow. A few minutes more and his eyelids begin to feel heavy. Maybe, he thinks as his eyes close, there is something to be said about curling up with a warm partner on a cold night after all.

    Moran falls soundly asleep in Moriarty’s embrace.

 


End file.
